


i saw you in the dark

by diecisiete_veintitres



Category: Women's Association Football | Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 20:55:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30111909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diecisiete_veintitres/pseuds/diecisiete_veintitres
Summary: had a thought, just went with it
Relationships: Tobin Heath/Christen Press
Comments: 16
Kudos: 204





	i saw you in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> had a thought, just went with it

“I don’t care who the _fuck_ you need to piss on to get this done, Jay, but you’d _better_ fix this! And please, do _not_ screw up like this again, goddammit. Especially not during hell week.”

Christen jams her phone into the pocket of her briefcase and pulls her coat tighter against herself. In her fury, she hasn’t noticed the drizzle that’s getting increasingly heavier and the wind that’s begun to pick up. _Damn, when did it get so late? And cold, ugh. Why do I live in New York? I swore I was never moving here. Where is Ryan???_

She looks out into the street, trying to catch her driver. It’s late enough that the high-rise she’s just left has no one but the doorman in sight. Those who work a ‘normal’ nine-to-five have already long gone and those still in the offices of Press Krieger Rapinoe will be there long enough to watch the sun rise over the Hudson, grabbing coffee and changing into a fresh suit in the gym locker room two flights down before the workday starts up all over again.

Normally, she would be part of the latter. It’s been a rough few weeks at the office and she’s needed to be all hands on deck. Cleaning up messes and dealing with the new group of interns, as well as an overeager new junior partner, have made stressful weeks even more difficult. The newbies were confused with the pace of the office, which made sense—they’ve started in the middle of six huge cases, which has to be a company record. The junior was trying to prove his worth by biting off way more than he can chew and it was not proving to be a smart method, judging by the number of messes she’s had to fix and knowing that some more had to have been delegated to her partners for their individual expertise.

So, knowing that she’d need to take a break or she’d crash—which, who is she kidding, it’s sort of already started—Christen had cleared her schedule for Tuesday night to give herself a breather. Her partners were pleased that she was taking care of herself and promised to pick up the slack; she’d been doing it for them a couple of years now, being the only single one of the three. Her night hadn't ended early as planned, but she was getting home before morning, so that was better than usual.

Shifting on her feet, trying to ignore the ache in her soles after standing in heels for most of the day, Christen cranes her neck, looking out at the street again. Her driver is never late and the streets of Manhattan don’t look all that crowded so she pulls out her phone to see if there is something she’s missing. She swipes at the droplets forming on her screen and then looks up in surprise. She’d been so in her head she hadn’t even noticed the rain steadily coming down.

 _Well, that explains the lack of people on the sidewalk._ She shields her phone from the rain and notices the date. _Shit! Shit, shit, shit! It’s Tuesday! Ryan’s wife’s birthday is today! How did I not see that?! What am I going to do now? She told me ‘see you tomorrow’ this morning. You should’ve registered that she wasn’t coming back. Ugghh! Christen! You gotta keep your head on straight. You don’t forget things like this!_

She’s kicking herself internally, knowing she won’t be able to hail a cab in this weather, uber an even slimmer chance. Christen tilts her head up, eyes closed in frustration, only getting more upset when her face gets all wet. Wiping her face with one hand she calls the one person she knows might be able to pick her up and drive her to her apartment on the other end of the city.

“Please, please, please. Pick up, pick up, pic—Mal, hi! Thank god you picked—No I’m trying to leave the office and I forgot Ryan has the night off and it’s pouring and I really don’t want to have to take the train, I feel a migraine coming on and it’s late. Please, tell me you’re out in the car? ...Dammit, I forgot you have late class tonight. ...No, sorry for bothering you. Kill it in class and I’ll figure it out. ...I swear, it’s all good. Okay? Bye, babe. See you tonight.”

This night really can’t get any worse. Once again pushing her phone into her briefcase, Christen looks out at the street from where she now stands, under the feeble canopy by the entrance. She’s seriously considering going back up to her warm, dry office, instead of taking the train this late at night.

“Can I help?” a voice says from the shadows on her right. Christen startles and yelps in surprise.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” a woman says stepping out of the shadows from where she was standing at the edge of the overhang. “I couldn’t help but overhear. You need a ride somewhere?”

“I, um—” Before Christen has a chance to answer, her phone chimes with the ringer assigned to Mal’s number.

**[Mal Bear 10:53PM]**

**Finishing class in 20. I can be at the office in another 25 after. I know you don’t like public transpo this late so why don’t you go up till I can pick you up? I’ll try and make it asap. Lmk either way**

She looks up at the woman now in front of her. “No, but thanks. Looks like I got one. You’re not from around here, are you?” Christen asks, her head tilted to one side, a bit wary.

The woman chuckles. “I am. Was born in Jersey and lived here in the city for the past decade, or so. I know my offer is uncharacteristic for Manhattan, where everyone is all ‘go, go, go’ and all about themselves, but I still like to help if I can. I’m Tobin by the way,” she says, offering up her hand to Christen.

“Christen. It’s good to see that some people _are_ nice around here.” She takes the proffered hand and isn’t surprised by the woman’s firm handshake. Christen notices what seems to be a tattoo of a chef’s knife on the inside of Tobin’s forearm. Taking in the rest of her appearance—a black denim button-down, cuffs rolled up above the elbows, black fitted pants, and canvas apron hanging loose around her neck—Christen can’t help but say, “Thanks, but either way, it looks like I’d be taking you away from something.”

Tobin’s hand moves to the back of her neck, the other shoved deep in her pocket. “Oh no, I work in a restaurant right here. It’s quiet by now, but it’s too early to close up shop. Came out here for a non-smoke.” At Christen’s raised eyebrows, she feels the need to explain, “Just because I don’t smoke, don’t mean I don’t need some short breaks.”

“No, I get it. Makes sense. I do some mindful disconnecting when I have a busy day, too.”

“Again, I apologize for eavesdropping, but it sounds like today was one of those and then some.”

Christen lets out a short laugh, “Yeah, you could say that. And it’s okay, I wasn’t exactly discreet on the phone.”

“So, did you make up your ride just to get rid of me? Because I still don’t mind and it’s only getting nastier out here.” Tobin asks with a glint in her eyes.

“No, no. Someone’s coming soon, it just might be a while. I think I'm going to head back up.”

“Well, if it’s all the same to you, would you join me in the restaurant? Help me kill some time till I can close? I’m sure I can whip up something for us to eat while we wait, if you’re hungry.” Christen wants to laugh at this woman, whom she’s only just met, giving her a puppy-eyed pout. _But it’s cute. And she looks harmless. And hot. You weren’t going to do anything at home but chill anyway._

“Okay, why not. Besides, if I go back up there, I’d never be able to leave again. Where is there a restaurant around here anyway?”

“Cool. Well then, come on. The back kitchen entrance is at the end of the alley.” Tobin’s face can’t seem to hide how pleased she is. Christen shoots Mal a quick text thanking her profusely and letting her know she’s waiting it out near the office.

Huddled into herself, she hurries to catch up to the other woman who is opening a wire door; light, music, and a delicious smell wafting out of a large but empty industrial kitchen.

“So, this is the ‘rant. Kidding, we don’t say that, no one says that.”

“Yeah, no one but you!” Christen turns around in surprise. The owner of the voice is a short and built man, dressed almost identical to Tobin except for a white paper hat where Tobin’s wearing an olive-green beanie.

“Hey, restaurant secrets are never to be shared. You know that,” Tobin playfully admonishes, grabbing a bin with a rag and mist bottle, pushing it into him and toward the dining area. Turning to Christen, she apologizes for the state of the kitchen and her staff. “That is Bati, pastry chef. Can be cheeky sometimes. Especially when we’ve had a night like tonight. Anyway, it's just me and him left. Bar’s open just in case until we close but Bati’s shutting down the floor for the night. So, let’s see what we’ve got to work with, shall we?”

Remembering Tobin’s offer to cook up something while she waits for her ride, Christen tries to get her to reconsider, not wanting to be an inconvenience. “No, you don’t have to do that. Won’t you get into trouble? It’s fine, I can totally just sit in the corner while you guys shut down.”

Turning back toward Christen, arms full of spices and ingredients, Tobin brushes off her concerns, putting the stuff down on the stainless countertop and tying her apron around her waist. “Please, you’re really doing _me_ a favor. When I get home after a night this late, I usually just end up on the couch with a beer and soccer reruns; food becomes an afterthought. Now Bati won’t be pissed that I haven’t eaten.” With a shrug and a slight smirk thrown over her shoulder to Christen behind her, Tobin starts moving her way around the kitchen. She puts up a saucepan on one flame, heating a frying pan on another, and sets herself up on a butcher block across from Christen. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Thanks,” Christen says a bit overwhelmed. Settling down on a stool beside her, she tries not to watch how Tobin’s biceps pull at her sleeves with each stroke of the knife in front of her. “Can I help?”

Tobin glances up at the woman in front of her, all business suit and perfect ponytail, leaning on her elbows eagerly. “Oh, you’re serious?” At Christen’s almost shy shrug, she puts down her chef’s knife and grabs an apron from beneath the counter. “Cool. Put this on? How are you with knives?”

Tobin sets her up dicing some crispy bacon and moves back to check on her pans before resuming her chopping.

“Thanks, I hate not _doing_ things, you know?”

“Every chef needs a sous-chef,” Tobin responds with a wink.

“Wait, you’re the chef here?” Christen asks, not surprised, more so impressed.

“Yeah. Yeah, guess you could say that.” Tobin chuckles, unaware of the other woman’s perplexed expression behind her. She lifts the diced onions and bacon on the flat of her knife and adds it to the frying pan with a satisfying hiss. Stirring it with her right hand so it didn’t burn, she adds something Christen can’t see to the saucepan, lowering the flame a bit. She pulls a tall pot off a part of the stove that Christen hadn’t noticed, putting it into the sink and draining it.

Christen moves back around the counter, trying to stay out of the way of the fast pace that she’s trying to follow unsuccessfully. She can’t help but admire the woman in front of her, tip of her tongue poking out of her mouth, face intense in concentration as she moves around the space. Before she knows it, Tobin’s turning around, a plate in each hand. She sprinkles some herbs on each dish, wiping the rim with a rag that she tucks back into the pocket of her apron, and looks up at Christen with a smile.

“Just gonna grab a bottle of red and be right back.” Christen watches the chef leave the kitchen and looks down at the dish in front of her. Tobin has prepared a glorified version of mac and cheese that looks and smells _heavenly_. Dumbfounded, Christen looks up at Tobin pouring two glasses of wine, and can’t seem to get any words out.

“Hi,” Tobin says softly, handing Christen a glass.

“Hi,” Christen finally manages to get out. “Thank you. This looks amazing. How did you do all this so fast?”

Tobin shrugs a shoulder. “What, this? This is nothing, just a—well, I guess you could say I’m as good a chef as you are a lawyer. Dig in, please!” she says without fanfare, lifting Christen’s fork and handing it to her.

“What? I—how do you even know—” Christen cuts herself off and eyes the food, her mouth watering. Only realizing now how hungry she actually is, she decides that the question can wait and lifts a forkful to her mouth. Christen’s eyes close and she moans at the taste causing Tobin’s eyes to widen in response, a blush slowly creeping up her neck. The chef grabs her own fork and tries to get back to safer territory, answering the half-question the other woman has asked before making her so flustered.

“Um. I, uh. Well, I kind of assumed, actually. You work in Harris Tower which is primarily law firms of different sorts and the commanding way in which you speak and carry yourself demands respect, which can only mean you’re damn good at what you do. And judging by that orgasmic moan, I’m damn good at what I do, too.” Tobin teases, who had picked up on Christen’s mortification, trying to ease out the awkwardness before it could become a thing.

Christen is relieved at Tobin’s smooth response and decides to go with it. “Well, since you know so much about me and all I know is you make sinfully good food, how about you tell me more about Chef Tobin?”

“Wait, did I guess right then? Two points?” Tobin asks jokingly, hoping for confirmation. She wanted to know more about the green-eyed girl, too.

Christen looks at Tobin over the top of her wine glass and in lieu of response says with a single-shouldered shrug, “My name is Christen Press.”

She watches with amusement as confusion, then recognition crosses Tobin’s face. “Oh! Christen Press as in Press Krieger Rapinoe? Man, I’m so sorry! I grossly undersold you just now.” Christen laughs at the woman’s response and before Tobin can get further into how “amazing” she is as a lawyer and activist—because, well, not to be arrogant, but she _knows_ all that already—brings the chef back to talking about herself.

She hears about Tobin’s days in culinary school in Paris, where she met most of the staff she works with today. She learns about her decision to work in the already crowded Manhattan restaurant business, where rent is steep as a cliff and opportunities were slimmer than they would have been in LA. How living near her parents but not being able to see them often due to her schedule was sometimes harder than missing them from all the way in Paris. Tobin tells her about three siblings, two sisters and a brother, and a handful of nieces and nephews that she loves very much. Somewhere in the middle of all this, she clears their empty plates and pours them both another glass of wine.

Christen, in turn, shares more about herself too. More than she has since moving to the city four years back, and she tells Tobin as much. Along with how she never wanted to live here (admitting for Tobin’s sake that it’s really not that bad—except on days like today), how she never dreamed she’d be living anywhere other than LA with her dad, her sisters, and her dogs. She feels safe enough with the chef to roughly describe the abusive relationship that had her feeling not at home in her hometown. How indebted she feels to her four best friends—her business partners and their wives—who, in a move of complete selflessness, consolidated their nationwide firm from locations in LA, Seattle, and Orlando, to a headquarters in cutthroat New York City.

Christen is grateful that Tobin seems to sense that the conversation is getting too emotional for her and rises to bring two chocolate soufflés to the table straight from the oven, only stopping to dust the tops with confectioner’s sugar and refill their wine glasses. She knows she shouldn’t be surprised, but Christen is once again astounded at the chef’s skills in the kitchen. The soufflé is a temperamental dish with a specific baking time, which means Tobin must’ve put them in earlier when she cleared their dinner, anticipating this moment. Before she can think too much into the butterflies she’s feeling from the utter sweetness shown by someone she’s just met, her phone rings.

“Hey, Mal... No, I’m sorry I had you worried, I didn’t notice the time... No, I’m not caught up in work again... It’s okay... I’m serious. I know it’s late but take your time. I appreciate you coming to get me, I know you hate driving in the rain... You’re good, I’m just going to text you the address to pick me up... I’ll tell you soon... Love you, too.” Christen faces Tobin with an apologetic smile.

“Your ride?” At Christen’s nod, Tobin teases, “It’s been quite a while. I’m glad I got you out of the rain.”

“She was actually surprised I haven’t blown up her phone for taking this long and was embarrassed to say it’ll still take another ten minutes. Must have really been enjoying myself for time to have gone unnoticed.”

“Hey, can I ask you something personal?”

Christen smirks. “Have we not just been doing that?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Sorry if this isn’t—what's Mal to you?” Tobin’s face goes red and she scratches the back of her neck sheepishly, but she doesn’t break eye contact and watches as Christen’s eyes go wide and then crinkle in amusement.

“Are you asking if Mal and I are dating?” Christen asks, enjoying the flustered way Tobin reacts to her question.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” Tobin responds more assuredly, the answer already there in Christen's question.

“Oh, god no. Mal is tragically straight and very much in love with her boyfriend. Besides, that’d be like dating my sister. Mal and I grew up together. She’d never been away from home before college so I figured if she was in Columbia, she could live with me. You know, save money on housing and not feel as homesick if she was with family. Not really a story for the little bit of time we have left.” Christen explains with a teasing smile on her face. “Why, are you jealous?”

“Maybe,” Tobin grins right back, clearly confident that Christen felt what she did between them. And she wasn’t wrong. Before she could bring it up, the man from earlier appeared in the doorway.

“I’m heading out. Everything’s closed out and prepped for tomorrow out there.”

“Thanks, Bati. Have a good one. Regards to the wife.” Tobin proceeds to do a complicated handshake with him and pats him on the on his head when he turns to leave.

“Will do. Night boss.”

Christen turns to Tobin, brows furrowed. “Boss? Wait, I don’t think we ever got to the part in your story where you tell me what your job title is in this place.”

Tobin laughs and reluctantly explains. “Yeah, this is my place. Owner and executive chef would be the job description on my tax forms.”

“Then why’d you make it like you couldn’t close early? Wait, were you already closed, just waiting on Bati to finish up? I feel terrible for keeping you!” Tobin grabs her hands and looks her in the eye, calming Christen down almost immediately.

“If I told you we were closed, you wouldn’t have joined me. I wouldn’t have been able to cook you dinner and ease the worry lines out of that beautiful face. You wouldn’t have gotten to know me and then I wouldn’t have been able to ask you if you would go out for dinner with me sometime.” She finishes softly, looking into Christen’s eyes. “Someplace that's not my place. Well, I mean, after ‘hell week’ I suppose or whatever it was.”

Christen laughs, Tobin’s comment breaking the tension between them. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.”


End file.
